


What's the Opposite of Gaydar?

by abbacchihoe



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Post-The Raven King, pynch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbacchihoe/pseuds/abbacchihoe
Summary: Orla excelled in the intangible; perhaps this was why she couldn't see what had been right in front of her this whole time.Or, the one where Orla's shit gaydar is addressed.





	What's the Opposite of Gaydar?

**Author's Note:**

> before you ask: yes, the title is a reference to that one vine. no, aforesaid vine is never once addressed (sorry). also, maybe i'm not looking hard enough, but i have yet to see a "orla realizes her gaydar is totally shit in fact not even existent" fic, & maggie, if you're reading this, i love you, but you had so many opportunities to make something like this happen. ok maybe not since a lot of shit was going on but anyway isn't this what fanfiction is for? to create scenes you wish would've happened in canon? i'll shut up now so you can read! enjoy!

If it had a penis and a pair of testicles, Orla Sargent had probably made love to it. Or, at the very least, made out with it.

Ask Orla, or anyone versed in her and her multitudinous entanglements, really, and she—they—will probably—certainly—say that there wasn’t a single man in Henrietta within Orla’s age range that she hadn’t lied with. Her sexual history was so extensive even Orla herself didn’t know when—and where—it had begun. She was just as unsure of which former lover of hers had carnally commenced it. Possibly it was Aaron Mullins in the dumpster behind school when they were both supposed to _be_ in school. Or possibly it was Allen Reyes, again, in the dumpster behind school when school was where they were supposed to be, dissecting _The Great Gatsby_ like a frog what they were supposed to be doing. All Orla knew was that her sex life had begun in a dumpster behind Mountain View High—whichever lover had contributed to its commencement was irrelevant.

Just as infinite was Orla’s list of crushes, be it past or present. Most of which had reciprocated her feelings in one way or another and at some time or another; the only one who had yet to was her most current crush, Ronan Lynch.

He was three years her junior, but within her age range all the same; according to her, age was just a number, anyway. She had been certain to clad herself in the skimpiest of clothing whenever she knew they’d be in close proximity to each other, yet he never once commented on any of them, or even so much as snuck a peek at her expanse of bare skin. Pretty Boy—Gansey—had done the latter on more than one occasion—so why couldn’t Ronan?

Had he been anyone else, he would’ve bed her by now. But because he was so undeniably, so infuriatingly, _Ronan,_ he regarded her no differently than he would a…in truth, she didn’t know anything about him apart from his total disinterest in her, though to be fair, she knew little, if anything, about any of her past lovers.

“Just ask him out,” Blue suggested around her spoon earlier that afternoon. The runt had been eating yogurt (of _course_ yogurt, what else would it be?) when Orla barged into the kitchen and begged her cousin for advice on how she could seduce the most mysterious of her foursome of friends. Orla knew it was foolish to come to her cousin, whose kiss had killed Pretty Boy—Gansey—for love advice—but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, Pretty Boy—Gansey—was alive and well. Sure, a dreamt forest had to die for him to be resurrected—but Blue’s lips had killed him all the same.

“No,” Orla said as Blue ate around the chunks of fruit she deeply despised at the bottom of her yogurt cup, “No, that’s not how it works. I know Pretty Boy—Gansey’s—your first boyfriend and all, but you don’t know _squat_ when it comes to relationships. For starters, the _guy_ asks the girl out, not the other way around.”

Blue crushed her mostly empty yogurt cup and proceeded to chuck it into the recycling bin, where it landed atop all the other yogurt cups with a soft _plink;_ she could try out for basketball if she wasn’t so maddeningly short. “I asked Gansey out on our first date, and our second, and our third…my point is, you shouldn’t waste your time waiting for a man to do something you, a woman, can do just as easily.”

Orla rolled her eyes, hoping above hope she didn’t just give rise to one of her cousin’s infamous feminist rants. “I’m well aware of my womanness, thank you very much. Anyway, I wanna punch myself right now, but…you’re right. I shouldn’t wait for Ronan any longer than I already have; if I do, I’ll be old and gray and ugly by the time he finally asks me out.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go to him!” One side of Blue’s previously-cursed lips curled, which led Orla to believe that possibly she was hiding something, but she quickly dismissed the thought and sprinted out of the kitchen as if the roof were crumbling above her. She practically floated into the Fox Way Ford, and her suspicion was replaced with euphoria as the engine purred and groaned, purred and groaned.

Every visit to the Barns felt like Orla’s first; how could it not, when almost the entirety of it was buzzing with dreams old and new alike? She and the three other Fox Way physics had been there multiple times this summer alone, but today was special, as it would be the first time she and Ronan were alone at the Barns. Not only that: it would be the first time she and Ronan were alone _anywhere._ The realization at once terrified and thrilled her. More so thrilled than terrified, though, which was large enough an incentive to peel herself from the Fox Way Ford’s crumb covered, cran-grape juice stained passenger seat, apparently, because she was standing on the porch in no time, peering inside like a Girl Scout. Or a Jehovah’s witness. Or a serial killer.

It was awhile before she realized the door had been ajar all along, and even longer before she at last entered, partly because she had been contemplating whether it was Christian-like to trespass. But then she recalled that she was psychic and therefore not at all religious, and also, that she was Orla Sargent, who had once, in high school, teepeed the house of whom she thought was her chemistry teacher but was actually his aunt’s cousin’s sister’s daughter’s. Without permission, obviously.

Once inside, Orla followed the sound of water spouting from a showerhead, suspecting she would find Ronan there; whether _there_ was inside the shower or otherwise was another question entirely.

It turned out _there_ meant otherwise, as she found Ronan sitting cross-legged on a bed that appeared to have been fabricated from clouds, an equally cloudlike towel draped around his noticeably toned waist. Possibly he had been waiting for her, or perhaps there was a girl far prettier than her in the shower, waiting for him…

“Can I help you?” Ronan asked in a voice too dull to be considered a monotone.

“Y-yeah,” Orla stammered; since when did she stammer? “I was considering whether you would fancy courting me.” And since when did she talk like Pretty Boy—Gansey?

“Sorry,” Ronan said, his voice as sharp as Blue’s switchblade; she loathed what it did to her loins (his voice, not the switchblade). “I don’t speak Shakespearean.”

“That wasn’t Shakespearean!” She snapped, just as quickly regaining her composure to continue, “I’ll translate anyway: would you like to go on a date with me?”

“I—” Ronan said at the same time Coca-Cola Shirt—Adam Parrish, she belatedly recalled—emerged from the bathroom, a towel likewise draped about his narrow waist and droplets of water clinging to his fair hair.

His blue eyes locked with Ronan’s even bluer ones. “You gonna shower with me or what?”

Orla looked at Ronan, at Adam, at the towels about their waists like clouds obscuring angels’ genitalia… _oh._

She must’ve said this aloud, because Ronan, his arms crossed across his chest, echoed, “Yeah. _Oh.”_

Orla, her face as red as Blue was short (which was very, _very_ short) fled from the Barns before Ronan could say anything else.

Orla excelled in the intangible; perhaps this was why she couldn't see what had been right in front of her this whole time.

Also, she was _so_ going to give Blue a piece of her mind when she got back.

* * *

The likelihood of Ronan Lynch answering his cell phone was as probable as winning the lottery or being bitten by a shark, neither of which were very likely, mind you.

Which is why Blue, fully aware of this fact, had very nearly fainted when Ronan answered her phone call by means miraculous. After it had rung a dozen times, sure, but he had picked up regardless, which was a feat in and of itself, if ever there was one.

The three (Blue, Ronan, and Adam) had been in on it all along. First, Blue had informed Ronan telephonically that Orla would arrive any minute to profess her (unrequited) love. Ronan had then filled Adam in on it, and the two had undressed and wrapped towels around their waists and started the shower the instant they heard the telltale c _runch_ of tires on gravel. Ronan had suggested the shower because, well, nothing else came to mind.

Also, he jumped at every opportunity to shower with Adam.

“Who knew you were such a good actor, Parrish?” Ronan wondered aloud, at the ceiling. Not long after Orla skedaddled, the boys had broken into a fit of laughter so intense they had wound up on the floor. The towels, too, had slid off their waists like butter due to the incessant heaving of their chests. Their fits of laughter had decreased in intensity and frequency since then, but every so often Adam chuckled, Ronan snorted, and they burst into laughter once more.

“I could ask the same of you, Lynch,” Drawled Adam as he climbed atop Ronan’s stomach and pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

Still staring at the ceiling, Ronan said, “I can’t believe a psychic had no idea I’m gay. A fucking _psychic,_ of all people.”

Adam made a _hmm_ noise in the back of his throat. Then: “Well, you’re not exactly what comes to mind when one thinks of the word ‘gay.’”

The ceiling wasn’t the least bit interesting, but Ronan continued to look at it anyway. “No shit, Sherlock. But she should’ve at least picked up on the fact; the fact that I never once ogled her whenever she wore one of her slutty outfits should’ve given her the hint. Just because I don’t wear bright colors or makeup or whatever the fuck else doesn’t mean I’m not gay.”

“Not that you even need makeup, anyway,” Adam said, “You’re pretty enough as it is.” He pronounced _pretty_ like _purdy_ , and Ronan loathed what it did to his loins (his accent, not the word itself, though the word wasn’t bad, either).

At last Ronan tore his eyes from the unstimulating ceiling and fixed them on Adam. “Come here, you,” He growled before kissing him softly, vehemently, taking his lower lip between his teeth and biting it gently, vigorously. There was that _hmm_ sound again, though this time it was more of a _hmmmmmm_ _._ It quickly became a _mmm_ when Ronan’s roaming fingers fondled his dusty, slightly damp locks, then a _mmmmmmm_ when they fondled something else entirely, then a—

“The shower’s running; can’t waste water.” Whispered Ronan.

Adam scrambled off of him as if his stomach was suddenly crawling with scorpions. “Son of a…have you no shame?!”

Ronan, after he had roared with laughter, of course, said, “Do you really want me to answer that? Besides, we’re gonna pick up where we left off in the shower, anyway, so hold your horses, Parrish.”

Adam raced toward the bathroom, but before he could step into the shower, Ronan asked, “Hey, Adam?”

The boy in question blinked, taken aback; very rarely did Ronan refer to him by his first name. “Yeah?”

“What’s the opposite of gaydar?”

“Why’re you asking?”

A beat of silence. Then: “Because whatever it is, Orla has it.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so much for reading & remember, each day that passes is another day closer to the dreamer trilogy & the raven cycle tv series!


End file.
